The Things We Hide
by Aleccio
Summary: John can usually tolerate Sherlock's inability to care for himself properly, but this time, the detective may have gone too far. Secrets, idiots, and not-so-little problems. Not slash  but feel free to squint, who knows
1. Chapter 1

_From the Personal Blog of Doctor John Watson_

_ He never ceases to amaze me, this Sherlock Holmes. His deductions, his insight, and his idiotically stubborn streak that yields to absolutely nothing. There really is no one else in the world like him. Possibly the closest thing you can find is Mycroft (he kidnapped me the other day, by the way, apparently just to check up on us—again), but he at least has what could possibly pass for tact. But just barely._

_ If you ever want Sherlock to admit something, you had better ready yourself for disappointment, misdirection, plenty of contempt, and many uncalled-for scathing remarks - and, by the way, while the last of those are often invariably true, it still doesn't stop them from stinging, or excuse them in any way._

_ As I managed to find out, though, that stubborn streak has managed to cling on all the way, crossing the line from idiocy into something that I'm not going to spell out - for decency's sake. I will spell out one thing, though._

_ That bloody idiot._

~:=:~

It was freezing cold on the rooftop, and John shuffled along with his hands shoved deep into his pockets in a vain attempt to ward off the biting air. His eyes roved around, breath fanning out thickly before him as he scrunched up his face and squinted in the dim light that had managed to penetrate the dark little corner.

He leaned over the concrete barrier just in time to see the dark outline of his flatmate emerge stealthily from a dark alley below, before Sherlock tilted his head up, quirking an eyebrow slightly as he looked up at him intently. John shook his head in reply, and even from his higher vantage point he could see Sherlock's irritated huff of breath. John started to smile and stopped himself just in time, envisioning with a mental smirk the accompanying expression in his flatmate's eyes.

Straightening up, John rolled his neck, hearing and feeling the small cracks and pops. Here they were, standing in the cold and waiting for a knife-wielding serial killer on a hunch based off of the fact that the killer had been wearing a hat. Which was based on…something that Sherlock had seen which led him to deduce that he was wearing a hat at all.

'Could be worse,' he thought, moving back across the flat rooftop, eyes still keeping a wary lookout. 'It could be snowing, for one.'

He reached the other end of the building, staring out over the London, taking the sight of it all in as the sounds of the city echoed down from what seemed like miles away.

A small huffing gasp interrupted his reverie, He stiffened immediately, a Pavlovic response cultivated from years spent scouting deserted villages with his company, and he whipped around in the next moment, brain shifting into defense mode.

A hulking figure stood across from him, bundled in a heavy coat with an odd plaid hat perched on the wide head, lending an odd sense of inappropriate comedy to the situation. The beefy right hand clutched cold steel, which shone in the moonlight. It was a hunting blade, the serrated edge shining like the sharp teeth of a feral animal, bared in attack, prepared to cut in, to bite down, to tear.

John's breath hitched in his throat as the two men stared at each other, puffs of grey breath drifting lazily in front of two stock-still figures. For several moments, all was clean and all was calm, and the only thing left in John's head was: 'How the hell did he know about that hideous hat?'

And then, just like that, time rushed back into action for both of them simultaneously, as they were suddenly galvanized into action at the same moment.

The doctor bellowed "Sherlock!" as the killer turned on his heel and fled across the roof.

"Sherlock, he's here!" John yelled again, beginning to give chase. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the lone, dark figure begin to run, but he was headed for a building across the street. Ignoring the mild exasperation that flickered through his mind, John put aside the questions for later as he focused on the chase, dogging the man's heels as he sprung nimbly onto the next roof, clearing the gap between their building and the next easily.

The killer didn't seem to have any real direction as he tore through the night, but he seemed to think he knew how to lose a pursuer, as he took risks in an attempt to shake off the doctor. John was, of course, having none of it. He kept up the chase, following his every dodge and twist and turn.

The two of them leaped across another empty space onto a building that was still under construction, the scaffolding sticking out, skeletal and cold.

The wooden boards creaked warningly under his feet as he pounded over them, and he only tore his eyes away from his target when the rustle of a dark coat and accompanying footsteps announced the arrival of the world's only consulting detective.

"Sherlock!" John gasped as his flatmate fell into step behind him. "How the hell-?"

"Shortcut," Sherlock answered curtly. "Watch it, John, he's going up."

The doctor looked around to see the man's boots disappear up a plywood ramp up to the second, and top, story. He began to charge up, leaving Sherlock behind as he pulled the gun from the waistband of his slacks. Aiming it in front of him, he emerged through the small opening, steadying it as his eyes searched for their target. He was met with the dark scaffolding glaring back at him.

He took a cautious step forward, eyes straining, and as he began to turn he heard the obvious sound of feet on wood, slapping towards him.

In the blink of an eye, he felt someone push him, a body against his for a split second hard enough to send him stumbling forward as he heard Sherlock bark "John!"

Managing to keep his feet, the doctor turned and raised the gun, only to find that it had been Sherlock and that the detective was now grappling with a man who easily outweighed him by 100 pounds and happened to have a knife.

Of course, it was never good for one's health and well-being to underestimate Sherlock Holmes, as the man was beginning to find out as he was sent staggering backwards, blood beginning to pour from his nose.

The temporary shock that the doctor felt at the sudden rush of events was shaken off, the gun wavering momentarily before settling on the fight, then back down at the ground. He wasn't willing to risk a shot, not in this light, now with the two fighters in such quick motion.

Instead, he stepped forward, intending to help in some way, but there was another flurry of motion and the sharp sounds of fists hitting flesh, and the killer was slipping backwards. He staggered at the edge of the platform, arms flailing momentarily, his body finally tipping in what looked like bad slow motion.

Sherlock seemed to be leaning forward as well, and John only had time to be confused for a split second as he saw the heavy man's hand gripping a fistful of the heavy black coat. There was a scratch, a flutter, and a soft gasp that hung in the icy air; and that was all the evidence that the two men had been there in the first place as they disappeared over the edge and into the dark.

Words sticking in his throat, John ran to the edge, trying to ignore the sudden sting of bile as he heard an ear-splitting metallic crash and a snapping noise that made his jaw tighten.

Skidding to a stop, the doctor leaned over the edge, eyes falling upon the dark heap on the ground. Hearing his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, his eyes strained to see any signs of life from the sprawled mess below him.

"Sherlock?" he called, tentative. Then again, louder, "Sherlock!"

A groan reached his ears, and he immediately fell silent, listening carefully.

Sherlock's voice floated up, somehow managing to sound pained, exasperated, and slightly embarrassed all in the same tone. "Oh, must you shout, John? It's really not helping any."

John smiled, relief far outweighing any irritation he could have felt from the snippy retort. "Not dead, then?"

"Not as far as I'm aware."

"Good. Try and keep it that way until I get down, yeah?"

He turned and made his way down the scaffolding, his flatmate's quiet chuckle being the only answer he was going to receive.

By the time that John reached the ground, Sherlock was crouched over the target, one hand stretched out to check the man's pulse as he lay face-down on the pavement.

"Alive," Sherlock said, pulling his hand back and looking up at John with an unreadable expression in his pale eyes. "Though you may want to call our good friend Lestrade soon, that was a rather nasty fall."

"What, and you're just fine?"

Sherlock pursed his lips as he pulled the long blade away from the killer, eyes roving over the cold steel. "I…may have maneuvered into a more favorable position to minimize contact with the ground."

John blinked. "So…you landed on him."

"More or less. I also managed to catch myself a bit. Not much, but enough."

The doctor's eyes flickered upwards to the scaffolding that stuck out, the worry becoming more and more evident as it etched itself into his brow.

"You hit that?" he asked, incredulous. "Was that the godawful noise I heard?"

"No," Sherlock mused, still crouched over their target. "I suspect that was the sound of this man's legs breaking."

John sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose before glaring at his flatmate, the irritation finally beginning to show. "Sherlock…" he began, but his partner interrupted before he could continue.

"John, you really should call Lestrade," he said, still not bothering to look back at the doctor. "Our killer may be out of it now, but his waking up and screeching like an owl is not something I really feel like dealing with." With that, Sherlock stood up, only to wobble slightly, immediately catching the doctor's eye. The worry returned as he stepped forward.

"What is it?" John asked, but as usual, the consulting detective brushed off the concerned doctor.

"Nothing, John, it's nothing," he snapped, irritation practically dripping off of every word, but the doctor had the sneaking suspicion that it wasn't irritation over the fact that John was hovering, but rather over the fact that he'd even wobbled in the first place.

The doctor couldn't hold back an irritated huff. "You fell off of the roof of a two-story building! Sherlock, it's not 'nothing.' You really should have someone look you over."

"You're a doctor, you'll do," Sherlock said, waving a hand dismissively. "And that was a double negative. But you should really call Lestrade."

It was fortunate that the detective was still looking at the suspect to make sure he wasn't about to get up any time soon, as he missed John rolling his eyes at the utter hopelessness of it all.

It only took a few minutes for the police to show up, which was fortunate, seeing as how they were in a random dark alley, and the guy had started to wake up.

What was unfortunate was that Sergeant Donovan had to show up as well.

"Figures that it would be you," she grumbled, glancing over at the tall frame in the shadows, dark and unmoving. "Freak," she added, almost as an afterthought.

"Always a pleasure, Donovan," he replied, the tone snide and yet distantly polite, not revealing in the slightest how the consulting detective felt (or, as Sally Donovan thought, if he felt at all).

Of course, John Watson was nothing at all like the Sergeant, and could see the annoyance building inside the man with every passing minute, the tugging at the edges of the detective's mouth and the stiff stance he'd adopted giving him away.

"Did quite a number at him," Donovan continued, eyeing a small spatter of blood on the ground where the man had been lying. "Sure there's nothing else you want to tell us? Perhaps you have a constant uncontrollable urge to push people off roofs? Anything else at all that you failed to mention?" Her voice was laden with sarcasm, but the meaning behind it was clear.

Sherlock's pale eyes flickered, the look holding such contempt with narrowed eyes and a barely concealed sneer that for a brief moment, all John could picture was a snake, a black mamba with those same grey eyes, coiled and set for a very angry, venomous counterattack.

The doctor opened his mouth to intervene, but Lestrade beat him to it.

"Donovan!" the Detective Inspector snapped in his usual brusque manner. "Accompany _him," _he jabbed a finger towards the drowsy suspect, "to the hospital, and stay with him until he can remember his own name, at least, and question him."

"Got it," Donovan said, standing up from where she had been crouching to inspect something on the ground. Brushing her hands off, she walked towards the suspect, not bothering to give the consulting detective a backward glance.

Lestrade, once sure that Donovan was following his orders, turned his glare to the shadowed figure of Sherlock Holmes.

"What the hell happened?" the older man asked, the tired tone belying just how many times he'd had to ask that question in the past.

"We found the killer," Sherlock said, the tone of his own voice revealing the exact same thing. "And we caught him, in a manner of speaking. What more could you possibly need to know?"

"How he ended up at the bottom of a building with two broken legs might be an excellent start."

Sherlock huffed, glaring off in the general direction of the ambulance as it began to pull away.

"Why don't you just ask him?" he said, gesturing at the vehicle as it disappeared. Hr sounded annoyed and almost tired, about as close to a petulant whine as the detective had ever gotten since John had known him.

"First off, we don't even know who _he_ is!" Lestrade said angrily.

"I told you, he's the serial killer who—"

The Detective Inspector held up a hand to interrupt. "Not only that," he continued, "but I highly doubt he's going to be very responsive with enough drugs to dull the pain of two broken legs."

"So take him off the drugs—"

"Oh, yes, great idea, instead of being unconscious or drugged up, he'll be screaming in agony. Brilliant."

"He deserves it. I mean, what kind of idiot tries to land on his feet after a—"

"That's not the point, Sherlock!" Lestrade yelled, finally losing it. Sherlock sniffed, but fell silent, avoiding Lestrade's gaze. The Detective Inspector took a deep breath before continuing with very badly concealed anger.

"You can't keep _doing _this, Sherlock, it's not…" Lestrade struggled with the words for a second, "It's not _healthy. _If you keep this up, thinking that you're invincible and running around confronting killers, it's only going to be a matter of time before we find you bleeding to death in an alley again because you managed to get yourself shot by a serial killer! And that's only if you're lucky, because the way you're going, we just might end up finding your goddamned _corpse!"_

Sherlock let out a breath that was almost a hiss, eyes flicking momentarily to John before glancing away, the edges of his mouth turning down in obvious disapproval.

John simply stared between the two, trying to absorb that bit of information. It was obvious that Sherlock would have much preferred that he not know about it, and John couldn't figure out if he was better off not knowing about his flatmate nearly dying. In retrospect, he really shouldn't have been surprised, but that didn't mean that the good doctor was going to worry less. Quite the opposite, in fact.

"This has nothing to do with the killer, does it," Sherlock said, his voice soft now. "You don't really care all that much about what happened, you already know I'm right about him being guilty. You only seem to care that I don't do things the way you want me to. You're trying to goad me into saying that I did something stupid so you can use that opportunity to puff yourself up something superior."

Lestrade snorted. "Please. You do that to us every single day." He crossed his arms, eyes still narrowed. "Listen, I'll give you until tomorrow…" a quick check of his watch had him correcting his statement, "or later today, I guess, to make your statement. But really, this is the last time the paperwork will wait. I'm getting tired of this game, Sherlock. You're no good to anyone if you're dead."

Sherlock muttered, "Scientific cadaver," under his breath, but Lestrade was already walking away. The two men stared after him, the silence stretching out before John finally got up the nerve to say something to break it.

"So…you've been shot, then?" he said conversationally, more of a statement than a question.

"Yes," came the stiff reply.

Another short silence.

"So…it was pretty serious, then?"

Sherlock's mouth twisted. "He may have exaggerated a bit."

"…about the whole 'bleeding to death' thing?"

"About the whole 'alley' thing. It was definitely a street. It even has traffic cameras, which is how my overly protective brother has now gotten wind of things."

John forced himself to bite back a groan as Sherlock swept past him, heading towards the street. By the time that John caught up, the consulting detective had already managed to find a cab despite the early hour, leaving the doctor to scramble in after him. It was only as the vehicle had been moving along for a few minutes that John finally noticed his flatmate, looking even paler than usual and his face screwed up in what was obviously pain.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" he asked, worry flooding through him for what felt like the tenth time that night. "Are you all right?"

"John," Sherlock answered, hints of irritated patience peppering his speech. "I managed to get myself pulled off of a building by a serial killer. Now, despite the fact that I managed to soften the blow quite a bit, I would like to point out that it is an entirely logical assumption that yes, I may have sustained some kind of damage." His arms, folded neatly across his torso, shifted slightly. The movement sent a wince flitting across the detective's face. "In this case, I believe I cracked a rib, quite possibly two."

"Lestrade may have been right then, about the whole 'you taking too many risks' thing," John said without thinking.

Sherlock, who had opened his mouth to say something else, closed it again, a thoughtful expression settling onto his face like a mask. That reaction immediately sent small pangs of guilt through the doctor.

"Sorry," he said quietly. "I'll take a look at you when we get back to the flat then, all right?"

"Not necessary," came the immediate curt reply. "I've dealt with this before, and I certainly don't need your help this time around."

The comment stung, and John knew better than to hide it from the detective. Besides, it wouldn't be the first time Sherlock had delivered a barbed comment, and the doctor had figured out by this point that most of the time it was better that he saw his words had had their intended impact. It seemed to cheer him up a bit faster.

The rest of the drive was in a cold silence, both men lost in their thoughts. When they finally arrived, Sherlock exited the cab with the quiet swish of the greatcoat, and had already disappeared into their flat by the time that John paid the cabbie and got inside. When he'd finally reached the door, Sherlock was seated in the large chair, arms folded and staring off into space.

John sighed. He always hated it when Sherlock got like this.

"Tea? He asked. The only answer he got was a pensive grunt, which he decided to take as a 'yes.' Once again, silence fell upon the flat, save for the sound of cups clinking and water being poured.

Leaning against the sink, John inhaled deeply. It was early, far too early, but their conversation in the cab—if you could call it that—was bothering him. He didn't want to go to bed to leave it hanging like that.

So he brought Sherlock his tea, leaving it on the small table next to him. He had just turned back for his own cup when he heard the small hiss of pain from the man behind him. He whirled around in time to see the detective snatching his hand back from where he'd been reaching for the cup.

"Sherlock…" John began, his tone pointed and worried, but his flatmate didn't allow him to finish.

"My ribs are broken," he snapped, defensive. "I just forgot."

"You _forgot?" _John said, incredulous. "How the hell do you forget about broken ribs?"

"I just stopped thinking about it. Thought you would understand that kind of thing," Sherlock answered snidely.

"Why's that, then?" John snapped right back. "Because I'm such an idiot that I forget something as soon as it happens?"

The look on Sherlock's face, one of badly concealed amusement, told him that this just might be the case, and John could feel the anger rising up, his temper flaring.

"Oh, really? This is all back to my idiocy? Because I'm too stupid to really be thinking in the first place? Well, let me inform you of something, Mr. Holmes, that's just not how _normal _people think. We can't just go delete things like a computer, and we _tend _to remember something as important as _pain!"_

John nearly continued, but forced himself to stop when he looked back at his flatmate. Any amusement had gone, to be replaced with an expression that was nearly impossible to place. It wasn't hurt, it wasn't shock, and it wasn't irritation…but it seemed to be all of them without really being any of them.

"Fine," Sherlock said, staring at the doctor with an icy gaze before looking away. "I'll just give up on being normal so I can be somewhat intelligent. I _do _hope it's not a terribly _inconvenience _to you."

"It's _pain, _Sherlock! You're allowed to feel pain, at least!"

"Maybe. I'd much prefer not to," Sherlock said idly.

Utterly frustrated, John turned on his heel away from the detective. His tea forgotten, he stalked away from the room, only to be stopped by the sound of his mobile announcing he'd gotten a text, ringing from where he'd left it in his coat pocket downstairs.

The doctor glared over his shoulder. "If that was you…"

In response, Sherlock raised an empty hand, leaving the other thrown across his stomach, before returning it to its previous position under his chin. Never once did he bother to look over, as if the wall had suddenly become exponentially more interesting.

Fully aware that his flatmate was entirely capable of having sent that text, John went down the stairs with a grumble. Rummaging through the pockets of his coat, he yanked out his phone. Answering the text, he was surprised to see that it wasn't from Sherlock, but Lestrade.

'_Tell Sherlock I've given Donovan my blessing to punch him next time she sees him_,' the text read, and John sighed.

"What did you do this time?" he called up the stairs.

"Was that Lestrade or Donovan?"

"Lestrade."

"Hm. Thought it would be Donovan."

"What did you do?" John repeated, exasperated.

"Oh. I switched their keys 'round. And their ID's. I would have switched their wallets, but Donovan didn't have one, so I just gave her Lestrade's." The voice was smug, and John could picture the self-satisfied smirk.

"Well," John countered, "he's given Sergeant Donovan permission to hit you, so I'd be a bit more careful from now on."

John turned back, beginning to walk up the stairs as he covered up a yawn. He was only half-paying attention to what Sherlock was beginning to say, feeling himself starting to get tired. It was accentuated by the fact that he'd just attempted to shove his phone in his pocket, only to miss completely. The phone slipped from his hand, hitting the wood step with a healthy 'thunk.'

Swearing under his breath, the doctor leaned down. His fingertips had just brushed against the cold metal of the phone when his attention was caught by something else on the stair, something that glistened in the low light.

Sherlock was still muttering away when John came back in, an unreadable expression on his face.

"Why is there blood on the stairs?" John demanded.

The mumbled words cut off instantaneously as Sherlock finally turned to look at the doctor. He blinked once, and then simply looked away again, the bored expression settling over his face again.

"Oh. That." he said, curling his long fingers into a fist and tucking under his chin. "It's nothing."

"Nothing? _Nothing?" _John sputtered. "There's blood all over the stairs, that's not _nothing."_

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand at him. "You worry too much."

The doctor was across the room in four strides, staring down at his flatmate. "No, Sherlock," John corrected, "you don't worry _at all. _Where are you hurt? Show me."

The consulting detective scoffed. "Please. I don't need your help."

John's eyes flitted down to his flatmate's arm that had been folded over his side since he had come in. "Really?" he said, crossing his arms. "Then show me your hands."

"John, I don't—"

"Show me," the doctor snapped. It was no longer a request. It was an order.

After only a few seconds of resistance, during which Sherlock regarded John with a cold glare, he pulled his hand away from his side and proffered it, the pale skin dark and slick with blood.

~:=:~

A.N: Not my first story, but my first on this account. I'm not happy with my old stories (they were for old fandoms I don't follow anymore), and I decided making a new account would be faster for my new fics and fandoms I'll be working with.

Anyways, part one of two! Only a two-shot this time around. Generally, I like one-shots, but this one turned out to be too long, and my Beta-reader suggested I make it into two parts (she's the lovely wolstensherlockholmes on Tumblr), so I decided, Why not?

Part two, coming soon. Sorry about the sort-of cliffhanger, I do feel a bit bad about that...

Love y'all~


	2. Chapter 2

A.N. And we have the second half of this story! Hopefully, it lives up to your guys' expectations. If not...sorry for getting your hopes up? But really, thanks again to my wonderful Beta on Tumblr who somehow managed to turn this floppy bit of scribble into a story.

Enjoy~

~:=:~

Almost immediately, John's face slackened, all emotion wiped from it in an instant. It was as if a tidal wave of fury was being held back behind gates of unfeeling steel, cold and hard, but with the imminent threat still very much present.

That look, that lack of expression, was making Sherlock horribly uncomfortable. John was normally so easy to read, his face an open book, but now it was almost impossible to tell what was going through his head. So he took his hand back, settling it into its former position as he pondered his next move. Fortunately, he didn't have to make one, as his partner decided for him.

The next second, John had leaned over and pulled Sherlock out of his chair. Surprisingly, the detective didn't put up a fight as he was hauled into the kitchen, letting himself be sat down on one of the chairs (fortunately not the one he'd dripped acid on) as John continued to move around the kitchen, occasionally tossing things on the table and slamming cabinets.

Finally, the doctor sat down in the other chair next to Sherlock, noticing with some shock that his flatmate had already shed his coat, the dark material puddling onto the floor in a rustling heap. Underneath, a red patch stained the white shirt that Sherlock was in the process of removing, long fingers deftly undoing the buttons and smearing bits of red on the once-pristine material.

The shirt was pulled off, and Sherlock twisted to the side in order to give the doctor a better view of the injuries. The pale skin was marred by mottled bruises, the darkest being along his ribcage, while below that a deep gash curved diagonally into his flesh above the jutting hipbone. Blood was still leaking from it gently, free from the pressure that the detective's hand had put on it. Dried blood stuck to the skin, dark and angry-looking.

The anger roiled inside of John again as he studied the injuries, mouth pulling down at the corners for a moment before returning to that blank slate.

The bowl of warm water on the table nearly toppled over as John grabbed it, yanking it towards him. The rag in it was roughly wrung out, and Sherlock hissed as it was swiped over his skin. He clamped down, trying not to make any sound as the doctor continued.

Within a minute, the water was tinged pink, and grew steadily darker as time passed.

John barely took notice of what he was doing; his movements automated from too many years spent repeating the same actions. He was too caught up in his own thoughts—mainly, what the hell was wrong with the man in front of him?

What had Sherlock been thinking, not letting anyone know he'd been hurt? There was a possibility that it was his pride getting in the way. The man's ego was so large it was practically viewable from space, and absolutely infuriating at the very best. The detective was always prancing around, doing whatever he wanted and flaunting his intelligence wherever he went. John would also be first in line to admit that the younger man was indeed an idiot; allowing himself to be led into dangerous and nearly fatal situations with little thought for consequences.

But while he was a danger-addicted egomaniac with often-violent bouts of boredom, the doctor could never see him as stupid. He may have been an idiot…but he wasn't _that_ much of an idiot…but hiding an injury this severe was silly and quite…well, stupid. It showed a staggering lack of thought, something that John didn't really think the detective was capable of, in all honesty.

A low grunt that nearly came across as a whimper immediately snapped John back to reality. The doctor looked up, and saw that Sherlock's eyes were shut, his jaw clenched tightly as he tilted his head back. A light sheen of sweat had appeared on his brow, and taut skin on white knuckles was gripping the back of the chair.

With a jolt, John realized that as he's delved deeper and deeper into his thoughts, he'd also been pressing down harder and harder. He released the pressure immediately, alarmed at himself.

"Jesus, I'm sorry," the doctor said, dropping the bloody towel into the basin.

Sherlock let out the breath he'd obviously been trying to hold, his body relaxing as the pressure on his side was removed. He gave a forced chuckle, wiping away the sweat on his face with the back of his hand.

"I'm fine," the detective sad, shaking his head minutely. "You're just helping me. Again," he added, a considerate afterthought.

It was John's turn to shake his head. "No, I didn't mean to…I mean, that shouldn't have hurt so much, I was just…" he trailed off, grasping for the right words. "I just wasn't thinking," he finished lamely.

Another chuckle, this one genuine. "I'm afraid you're wrong on that one, doctor. Your problem is that you were thinking too much."

"Yeah, I guess so."

There was a short silence as John pulled out thread and a clean needle, but Sherlock's tentative question nearly made him drop it in shock.

"Would you…rather talk?"

John stared at the consulting detective, who almost seemed…embarrassed, not meeting his eyes. Was Sherlock, master of avoiding emotional conflict (always claiming there were never any in the first place), really asking him if he wanted to talk things over? It was an offer John couldn't refuse.

"Amazing," he said, smiling. "You always accuse me of never using my brain, but the second I try, then you want to talk?"

"Well," Sherlock said airily, sounding much more like his normal self, "there is a time and place for everything. You happen to start thinking at the most inopportune moments."

The two shared a laugh, and for that moment they could pretend that nothing had happened before reality set back in, with a bleeding detective and an angry doctor.

Carefully, John began to thread the needle, keeping his eyes carefully on his work.

"So," Sherlock said carefully, also keeping his gaze pointedly away from the other man. "Care to tell me what's, ah…on your mind, then?"

John almost smiled in satisfaction at the sound of the detective, usually so eloquent with his words, stumbling over the sentence like a somewhat normal person.

"You're not going to answer without me asking first?" he said, a bit more harsh than necessary. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the younger man shift slightly.

"It would probably be more beneficial for the both of us if I don't answer preemptively," Sherlock answered.

John pursed his lips mockingly. "Yeah, that might be better." He leaned back for a second as he carefully knotted the stitching thread. "Well, I guess I'll get the biggest problem out of the way first. Why the hell didn't you tell me you were hurt this badly?"

Sherlock let out a quiet huff. "Of course you go right for that."

"Well, it's been bugging me."

"I could tell."

There was a short silence, until John figured that Sherlock needed just a bit more prompting.

"So, then…what is the reason?"

"I'm thinking," Sherlock muttered. John huffed; temper beginning to flare a bit again.

"Why, so you can lie to me?"

"Possibly. It may be better than the truth."

That really wasn't helping. "What's the truth?" the doctor pressed.

"I'm not sure."

John snorted, until he looked up and caught sight of Sherlock's utterly frustrated expression, and it hit him. "Wait a minute…you mean that, don't you."

"Oh, come on, let's not make a fuss—"

"You honestly don't know why you lied to me."

Sherlock huffed again, frustration building into annoyance. "I didn't lie, John."

"You told me you were fine. That was a lie," the doctor countered.

"Well, I _felt _fine."

"But you weren't fine, and you knew it."

Sherlock finally conceded. "Fine, I suppose I did know. To an extent."

"Then why didn't you _tell me?" _John said insistently.

"I tried!" Sherlock said loudly, his irritation finally winning out over his restraint, backed into a corner as he was. However, it made John stop cold.

"When?" he finally spluttered.

"In the cab," Sherlock said, more quietly now. "I nearly said something, but decided against it."

"Why?"

Sherlock sighed, tucking a hand beneath his chin. "Because you thought that Lestrade was right about me."

As he was talking, John leaned forward, placing the top of the needle to the skin. Glancing up, he caught the detective's small nod and proceeded to begin stitching carefully.

A small note of strain tinged Sherlock's words despite his best efforts as John continued with his ministrations. "You seemed very convinced by his argument, something I was very much hoping against, and when you told me that he was correct in his thinking…well, I simply decided to forget the entire issue and neglect to tell you about this little problem."

"Little?" the doctor said incredulously. "Sherlock, you're getting stitches in your kitchen and dribbling blood on the floor. In what way is this a 'little' problem?" "Perhaps it isn't, then," Sherlock consented. "But my reasoning does not change."

"Reasoning? Please, you chose not to tell me out of spite and pride."

"Partially, I suppose. Such an injury shows a distinct lack of skills, ones that I most certainly have," the detective sniffed, almost haughty through the pain. "But I also didn't need you constantly bringing up this one aberrant example in an attempt to keep me from doing my job the way I have always done it."

"What, nearly getting yourself killed?"

Sherlock's eyes flashed angrily as he turned to look at the doctor for the first time since they'd moved to the kitchen. "And _that," _he snapped, "is precisely what I was talking about. You think I won't survive, but I was doing just fine before you came along."

"Oh, really? Because from everything I've heard," John snapped right back, tugging a bit harder on the thread than necessary, "you seemed to be a crazed junkie running around, pissing people off, and getting shot."

Sherlock looked furious, and it was probably only the pain that kept him from getting up and storming out.  
"And you think you're helping me, do you?"

"If by that you mean I'm doing my damndest to keep you from killing yourself, then _yes, _I am!"

"Fantastic job you're doing, then. How did you put it? I'm getting stitches in my kitchen?"

John recoiled slightly, stung, before retaliating. "You're not bleeding to death in an easy chair. I'd call that a step in the right direction."

"Please. I could have taken care of it."

"Really," the doctor said, dripping the end of the thread and the needle on the table on the clean dish, the end still attached to the bloody gash. He stared Sherlock in the eye, his face grim. "If I walked out that door right now and not come back, what would you do?"

A frigid silence immediately fell, and Sherlock blinked, eyes widening slightly. The ultimatum hung in the air, ominous and clear.

The detective felt his companion's gaze, his own pale eyes flickering around the flat as thought the answer was hiding there, as concealed as one of his clues.

"If I said that I was going to continue helping people," Sherlock finally said, "would you stay?"

"No," the doctor answered sharply. "Because that's not what you do. You're not in it to help anyone feel better, you do it because you're bored and you get some kind of sick pleasure out of proving yourself smarter than everyone else, and catching people who think they got away with it."

The detective eyes him for a second before settling back into the seat. "There you have it then," he said quietly. "I suppose I'd just go back to that." He stared back at the wall, his expression a mixture of some odd satisfaction and what could almost be interpreted as sadness. John couldn't help but feel as though he had just passed some sort of test.

The detective twisted around, reaching for the needle and thread, clearly intending on attempting to finish the job himself until John swatted his hands away.

"I'll finish it. You'll only mess it up," the doctor said firmly, trying not to think about the look of resignation that Sherlock was valiantly trying to hide. But the detective allowed himself to be pushed back, jaw clenching as the needle moved in and out as gently as the doctor could manage.

The door opened suddenly, and Mrs. Hudson's voice floated through the flat. "Are you all right then, dears? I heard shouting, and it woke me up, so I just thought—"

Their landlady's words cut off abruptly as she caught sight of them and practically shrieked. John couldn't really blame her, with bits of blood dabbled around the kitchen and John sewing shut a gaping wound in his colleague's side.

"Sherlock, what have you done?" she demanded, and John couldn't help but commend her on a fast recovery.

"It's nothing, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said dismissively, as John once again dug the needle into his side. It was obvious that he didn't want her here, not bothering to look over at her. "Fell off a building, must have hit something on the way down is all."

"Oh, is that all?" she said, the sarcasm almost making her words heavy, in a way. "There's blood everywhere!"

"I'll take care of it," John reassured her, something nagging at him now. He wanted her out almost as much as the detective, now, so he could confront him about it. "Don't worry about it. It's late, you should go back to bed."

"I'm not cleaning that up—"

"I will," the doctor repeated, hastily interrupting her.

She eyed them for a second longer, with John staring at her and Sherlock pointedly ignoring her, before she shook her head, turning around. "Always something going wrong for you two," she said, voice growing fainter. "Just don't expect me to do any of the cleaning for you on this one. I can't stand blood—" her voice finally cut off as the door shut behind her with a snap.

"She'll be up here first thing tomorrow with a mop and a bucket," Sherlock muttered, but John had his mind on the thing that had been bugging him.

"Why did you lie to her?"

Sherlock blinked at him, but the doctor wasn't fooled at all by the purposefully blank face. He frowned, shaking his head.

"No more games, Sherlock. Just tell me, why did you lie? You didn't hit anything when you fell."

"How do you know I lied?"

"The cut," John answered, tugging the thread gently through. "It's just that, a cut, because if you got caught on something it would be jagged and a lot more messy. This is too clean." He glanced up at the detective, who was looking back curiously.

"A good observation," Sherlock concurred.

"Then you got cut during the fight. But why would you lie about that to Mrs. Hudson? You've told her other blatant truths about getting in fights and what you've been keeping in the fridge, so why? What possible reason could you have?"

The consulting detective was still staring at him, and John could practically see the wheels working inside his mind, whirring away at speeds he couldn't even begin to imagine. Yet out of that, a suspicion was still nagging at him that he couldn't help but vocalize.

"Unless…you weren't lying to _her," _he continued, his meaning clear.

Sherlock snorted. "Why must it always be about you, John?"

"I don't know, you tell me," the doctor challenged, stopping his work once again to glare up at his companion. "You're sitting there, dodging questions and insulting me—"

"_Sitting _here? You happen to be shoving a needle into me—"

"See? There you go again!" John sighed, shaking his head slightly as he began the last few stitches. "Can't you just give me a straight answer instead of treating this as some kind of hide-and-seek mind game?"

Sherlock was still staring, and John could clearly feel it, but for once he didn't bother to look up to meet that pale gaze. The silence stretched on for another few seconds before the detective looked away, sighing heavily.

"I did get cut by the killer's knife, you were right about that. You were also correct on saying that I was lying to you indirectly when I was speaking with Mrs. Hudson. However, I only did it because…well, I really was trying to think, John. I didn't really want you to…" the words trailed off miserably as once again the verbose detective scrambling to put the sentence in order.

"You didn't want me to know…because of how I would react?" John finished, incredulous, and immediately noticed the wince that had nothing to do with the pain.

"Sort of…I guess so?"

Sherlock sounded completely unsure of himself, which made John believe him far more than if the detective had been looking him right in the eye.

"And since when have you cared how I felt?" the doctor accused, perhaps a bit more venomously than intended. "Actually, since when have you cared how _anyone _felt?"

Sherlock squirmed uncomfortably. "Possibly because…I…" He growled under his breath, obviously irritated by his own inability to verbalize his complicated thoughts. Finally, he tried again, purposefully. "Because, out of everyone I have met, I believe you are the only person whose opinion has mattered to me at all."

John's hands stopped as he pulled the final knot. "And…you think that this secret of yours would have changed my opinion of you?"

"Well, no, not exactly…"

"Please, just stop trying to hide things," the doctor said firmly, his mind still churning at the detective's words. He placed the needle aside as the small scissors deftly clipped the thread. "Sherlock, would you _please _just give me a straight answer?" He stripped off his bloody gloves, throwing them onto the table. "What aren't you telling me?"

Hesitation on his features, the detective pondered for a moment before saying slowly, "Perhaps that…I was not wounded in the fight itself, but rather it is…what led to the fight."

"But why would—"

And suddenly it all made sense, like someone had snapped their fingers and he'd understood. The deflection, the lying…he hadn't put himself in danger simply for kicks. His actions had been far more well-meaning, even noble, which was perhaps the reason that the doctor hadn't thought of it before.

His mind raced back to that dark, cold rooftop, his fun in his hand and his eyes searching fruitlessly, because the killer had known which was he was going to look first, as it was natural to look forward at the top of the stairs, had been counting on it. Unexpected, of course, was the lanky detective who had been right behind him.

"So…let me get this straight. You got this," he pointed at the neatly stitched cut, "because some crazed serial killer was trying to stab me?" John rubbed the bridge of his nose, guilt setting in as he recalled how angry he'd been earlier. "I'm sorry for—"

"Stop that," Sherlock said sharply, cutting him off. "That is _precisely _what I wanted to avoid. He waved a vague hand in John's direction, wrinkling his nose. "That…_guilt. _It's written all over your face. I didn't do it because I wanted you to feel some sort of obligation."

"So you want me to be your personal slave because I want to?"

"Yes, because you want to, not because of some debt you think you owe me. Simple."

John stared at the detective for a few seconds, his mind absorbing that bit of information. Finally, he mopped up the small remnants of blood on the pale skin, trying to hide the smile that was creeping across his face.

Sherlock stared at him suspiciously. "What?"

Shaking his head, John began to bandage up the cut and tape the detective's ribs, the grin still present on his face. "It's nothing."

"You're smiling, obviously pleased with _something."_

"Perhaps," John countered a bit mockingly.

"Well, then, what is it?"

The doctor chuckled, knowing it would only serve to irritate his companion further. "I was just thinking that it's a pity that the only witnesses to your first act of selflessness were me and a deranged killer who's just had both his legs broken."

Sherlock smiled, rolling his eyes in an almost embarrassed denial. "Oh, please. I had entirely selfish purposes, I assure you."

"Sums you up right there, doesn't it. Doing things for others just for yourself."

"Just about," Sherlock agreed with a quiet, pensive hum.

John carefully stretched another piece of tape along the second rib he'd found to be at the very least bruised—his earlier prodding had revealed that there were two ribs that had possibly been fractured, but he was still going to drag the detective into the hospital the next day for an x-ray no matter what kind of fuss he put up. "So," he said, placing another piece next to the other, "if I'm not allowed to feel guilty—"

"Which you're not."

"Am I allowed to say thank you?"

Immediately, the detective balked. "No."

"Sherlock," the doctor said sharply. "I'm trying to be serious."

His flatmate sighed, shooting John an uncomfortable look. "Fine," he mumbled. "You're…welcome," he ground out, obviously forced. Like he'd never been properly thanked before…which was more plausible the more that he thought about it.

Chuckling again, John placed the last piece of tape down, and Sherlock dropped his arm from where he'd propped it up on the table, his arm twisted awkwardly behind him. "See? That wasn't so hard, was it."

He was only given a condescending look for his troubles. "Which, the 'thank you' or the ribs?" Sherlock asked, beginning to stand up.

"Oh, we're not done with the ribs just yet," John said quickly, pulling the detective back down. Of course, his flatmate attempted to resist.

"I'm not walking around with my arm in a sling," Sherlock said firmly, his tone obviously implying that just the idea of it was the silliest thing he'd ever heard. The doctor, of course, had other plans.

"Yes, you are," John said curtly, his arm on the detective's shoulder keeping him in his seat.

"How are you expecting me to do my job with one of my arms tied down?"

"I'm expecting you to not do your job."

Sherlock bristled, and would have left had John's hand on his shoulder not kept him firmly where he sat. "Come now, let's be realistic here," the detective said. "You can't seriously expect me to sit around the flat all day with one arm—"

"You have broken ribs and a fairly decent laceration—"

"I have two bruised ribs and a papercut," Sherlock retorted, and a heavy silence fell as the two men glared at each other.

"Look," John said, not averting his gaze. "You can try and laugh it off any way you want, but you're still in pain and there's no use trying to hide it. You can _forget _about it for a while, sure, but the second you move it's going to hurt, and you know it damn well."

"You don't have to lead me around by the hand like a child," Sherlock replied. "I have dealt with things like this before, and it's not your job to keep me from my work."

"Really?" John said, mocking incredulity coloring his tone. "Because, last I checked, I'm a doctor and if I think it could be detrimental to your _health, _then yes…it is my job to keep you from doing yours. _But," _he said, interrupting his flatmate's reply with a raised finger. "I'll make a deal with you."

Sherlock eyed him suspiciously before leaning back in his seat, allowing John to drop his hand off the detective's shoulder. "And what kind of deal would that be?"

Crossing his arms, John continued with his proposition. "You can either wear the sling and I'll let you go help Lestrade, or you don't wear it and I'll make sure that you stay here until it's better."

The detective looked at him flatly, quirking an eyebrow. "You'll 'make sure' I stay here?"

"I'm a doctor and a soldier. I have my ways."

They stared at each other for another second before Sherlock pushed himself out of his seat with a huff. The lanky form disappeared into the other room, leaving John in the blood-dripped kitchen to clean up.

With a sigh, he stood as well, collecting the materials, until the detective's voice interrupted him, the words slightly muffled.

"What?" he called back. "Didn't quite catch that."

"I said I'm not wearing the damn thing when I'm here, only when I leave for a case."

John had to bite back laughter. "And you can't go around forgetting it, either. No running out the door."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"'Course you wouldn't," John grumbled sarcastically under his breath, dumping the red-tinged water into the sink, mildly surprised it wasn't being used for some experiment. "Just one big walking denial, you are." He raised his voice again. "And you're welcome, by the way."

A grunt was the only reply he got.

~:=:~

_There is no one word that can sum him up. 'Genius' might come close, except for the glaringly obvious he happens to not know or care about. The way I've come to see it, he's a puzzle and an argument, this story that you want to piece together but mocks you every time you try. I know, that sounds rubbish, but try living with him. You'll get it._

_ I know this isn't the first time he's gone and done something incredibly stupid and got himself hurt, and I know for a fact that it's not going to be the last. Maybe I can't stop that, but I sure as hell am going to try and fix whatever he manages to screw up. Maybe one day he'll give up this bad habit of putting himself in constant danger, but until that time comes, I will have to settle for picking up the pieces._

_ Even if sometimes those pieces insult my intelligence. _


End file.
